Read Online Eighteen Days of Spring in Winter by Saeida Rouass - Free Book Online

protesters called. Not to Mubarak and the regime, but to the young man in army uniform standing on the top of a tank looking down at them. Reminding him they were one, that if he shot at them, he was shooting at himself, his mother or sister. The less the army did, the louder the cry.
Sunday 30th February
    The cry was heard. I would have given anything to be in Tahrir Square on the 30th of January. Of all the days of the revolution to that point, that day would be my choice.
    Starting off quietly, Tahrir Square soon filled, this time with a group of state judges joining the protest. The protesters’ terms were laid down, clearly and divisively. They refused to even talk to Mubarak. The doors were open for talks with the army only. Ironically, these terms were made while Mubarak was in talks with his top army officials.
    In that meeting he ordered them to use live ammunition. They refused, telling the protesters not to fear them. F-16s flew over Tahrir Square twice. By the third time the crowds cheered them, waved at the invisible pilots in the cockpits.
    And people began to nest, to clean the Square, remove the garbage that had started to collect. Non-protesters went thereto feed protesters. A state judge fed with a washerwoman’s koushary .
    The sense of solidarity had not been broken nor debased. It had been strengthened by a potential new ally in the army and people began to prepare for a dragged-out siege.
    I noticed a difference in my father that day too. He released the protective chains he had wrapped around us. He took me on a neighbourhood patrol. Probably because he thought my legs needed stretching, when it was the stretching of my mind causing the most discomfort.
    We walked around the designated route and talked. He was very good at patrol, took it seriously: subtly alert to who was around us, what was happening ahead and behind us. Yet, despite his alertness, despite the tense atmosphere, there was a normality to our walk. Conversation about the protest and revolution was mingled with other topics. We talked about university and my future plans. I told him about my course and how much I enjoyed it, that maybe I would be a teacher one day. He looked at me disappointed, but didn’t say anything.
    The pharaoh had spoken. He threatened us with his own death. We talked about that too. About what it meant. About my father’s hopes that it would end peacefully, that the old man would choose dignity in the end. He was honest with me. He told me how his fears were continuously being quashed by the protesters, how he wondered if it was possible to have a united people and how the thought filled him with hope and also scared him. And how he sometimes wondered if he was going about it all wrong, if he should be somewhere else at that moment, with people not his blood, but who were willing to shed theirs for him.
    We reached the end of his shift at our building entrance. The caretaker stood up with his teenage son and shook my father’s hand. They retraced our steps, beginning their shift, their walk, their talk.
    My father stopped at the entrance door and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You said before you want to be a teacher?’ he said.
    I nodded.
    â€˜Why?’ he asked, more curious than anything.
    I hesitated to think of an answer.
    â€˜Because I think stories are important. Because I think fiction can teach us things that fact often fails to.’
    â€˜So tell them!’ he replied, ‘Tell those stories. But, Sophia, tell your stories, not someone else’s.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I mean, if you love literature then write. You can be in whatever field you want, just offer it the best you have and teaching, though noble, is not the best you have.’
    I loved my father. I loved him so unconditionally. I loved him because of his overprotective ways. I loved him because everything he did for us came from a good place.
    â€˜I want to go to Tahrir